Bird in the House: A Wife's Tale

They slept, as usual, tucked
into each other, two lanes
of a single, curving road.

When one of his hands began
a flutter across her breasts,
she knew he was flying again.

Over coffee, her same questions,
his familiar, lopsided grin, the one
that meant he didn't understand her

fascination, but would humor her,
describe the elation of soaring:
lightheaded as a tree might feel

after shedding its leaves -- bare,
dazzled by unexpected clarity
at a caress of the autumn sun.

She dreamt only of houses,
changed through the years,
losing their gloss of fresh paint;

at the center of each, the one
locked door made her nervous.
She didn't know what lived at the heart.

Glenda Cooper  copyright 2001

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